Crossbones Cemetery

At a risk of being thought morbid, I'm off to visit another cemetery. This one is really special, though. It's one of the first places I ever visited on a walkabout and I always take my friends and family there if we pass through Southwark. And I'm taking a pink hair ribbon with me. You'll see why later.

Crossbones cemetery lies off Redcross Way, a quiet, empty side street running between the noise and bustle of Union St and Southwark St. It's an easy 5-minute walk from either Borough or London Bridge stations.

Now, Crossbones doesn't look like a cemetery - it doesn't have gravestones or mausolea, and you can't wander through its grounds like Brompton Cemetery, but you won't miss it - just look for the metal gates covered in flowers, beads, dolls and ribbons and adorned with a brass plaque that reads: R.I.P. the Outcast Dead.

Why these words? Because from late medieval times Crossbones was an unconsecrated burial ground for prostitutes and other 'undesirables'. Local legend says it was also used as a plague pit, and paupers were buried here from 1769. No memorials mark their graves, but it is thought that some 15,000 bodies might rest under the sad patch of wasteland behind these gates.

No one knows quite how old Crossbones is. The earliest reference to the graveyard comes from John Stow's Survey of London, written in 1598. He writes: "I have heard of ancient men, of good credit, report that these single women were forbidden the rites of the church, so long as they continued that sinful life, and were excluded from Christian burial if they were not reconciled before their death. And therefore there was a plot of ground called the Single Woman's churchyard, appointed for them far from the parish church." You may have guessed that 'Single Woman' is a euphemism for 'prostitute'.

For many centuries Southwark was the 'pleasure garden' of London, where all sorts of forbidden things such as bear and bull baiting, theatres and brothels flourished. Bizarrely, this is because from 1107 the land belonged to the Bishop of Winchester. As his estate fell outside the jurisdiction of the City, all these otherwise illegal activities could operate freely - licenced, of course, by the Bishop. Under an 1161 ordinance of Henry II, licensed brothels were entirely legal within the Bishop's lands or 'Liberty', with licencing fees going into the Bishop's coffers. Prostitutes who worked in these 'stews' were thus known as 'Winchester Geese'.

Their activities may have been legal but these women were still personae non gratae in society. After they died they were forbidden from being laid to rest in consecrated ground - instead they received a shallow pit and a shovel of quicklime on the edge of the Bishop's lands: the patch that became Crossbones Cemetery.

Henry VIII annulled his ancestor's ordinance in 1546 and the licenced brothels closed, but Crossbones continued to be used as a burial ground for the most wretched members of society. By the 19th century the area around the site had become a cholera-infested slum and the graveyard was finally closed as it had become "completely overcharged with dead" and "inconsistent with a due regard for the public health and public decency".

What next for this lonely spot? In 1883 the land was sold as a building site but after public outcry - and Lord Brabazon writing a letter to The Times condemning this act of "desecration" - the sale was declared void under the 1884 Disused Burial Grounds Act.

The Outcast Dead lay peacefully for 100 years until their slumber was disturbed once more in the 1990s. Extension work on the Jubilee Line led to part of the cemetery being excavated by the Museum of London Archaeology Service between 1991 and 1998. Archaeologists found and removed 148 skeletons, mostly women, many of whom showed signs of tuberculosis, syphilis, smallpox and other diseases. They reported that the burial site was very overcrowded, with bodies layered on top of each other.

Then in 1998 something wonderful happened: the local population adopted the site as a people's shrine. The gates in front of the cemetery were decorated with a wooden plaque (replaced in 2005 with the bronze one seen today) and a colourful, chaotic sea of totems: dolls, teddies, ribbons, flowers, strings of beads and strips of cloth bearing the names of the dead. If you look at these memorial ribbons you will see names and dates both ancient and modern, with women commemorated from the 1600s into this century. These decorations have survived to the present day, added to by respectful visitors and cared for by a group of volunteers called the Friends of Crossbones Cemetery, who also hold a candlelit vigil outside these gates once a month. Even the graffiti on nearby wooden boards has a reverent tone. "Touch for Love", someone has written inside a great chalk heart, while a cardboard notice adds: "Sleep well, you winged spirits of intimate joy". The place feels sad but also very loved.

The most recent threat to the cemetery comes from Drivers Jonas Deloitte and TFL who are interested in marketing the site as a 'Landmark Court' for development from 2012. The Friends of Crossbones Cemetery are fighting to create a permenant memorial garden there instead. You can read about their campaign - and more information about the cemetery - here.

Having reached the metal gates of Crossbones Cemetery I stand for a moment in quiet thought while bright ribbons wave in the breeze. No traffic passes down Redcross Way, and the street is a shady island of tranquility and stillness between hectically busy roads. This is my fifth or sixth visit to Crossbones but it is still very moving to stand before these tokens of public compassion and acceptance, to think of those quiet sleepers behind the gates who never knew this kind of love while they lived. I stoop to read some of the names printed on weather-tattered and faded strips of cloth and wonder who went to the trouble to find out the names of the 17th and 18th-century women recorded here. Then, taking a pale pink ribbon from my satchel I reach up and knot it securely around one of the railings, near the bronze plaque that, erected by the local council, is as close to an official commemoration as any of the Outcast Dead have ever had. I stand a moment longer, my ribbon already lost amongst the other loving tokens, just one strand of colour among many in this rippling, living memorial. And then it's time to go home.